


how optimism led me astray

by dickviolin



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Barebacking, Creampie, Dom!Roger, Feminization, Lingerie, M/M, Makeup, Offscreen Kink Negotiation, Prostitution Roleplay, Sexual Roleplay, Smut, Spanking, Verbal Humiliation, let me know if there's owt i've missed, whew i think that's everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-25 19:37:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20917460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickviolin/pseuds/dickviolin
Summary: this is. um. dirty. check the tags and enjoy rafa being an almighty sluttwitter





	how optimism led me astray

They had been planning it for three weeks, but the knock on the hotel door still made Roger jump.

It had started, as all of their best exploits did, with a bottle of wine. It only took one bottle, between them, to get them drunk and loose-lipped, and after thoroughly trouncing Roger at Fifa, Rafa had turned to him and said, “Forfeit,” and Roger had wondered where he’d learnt that bit of English, and he’d said _OK, sure, shoot_, and Rafa had replied-

“Dirtiest fantasy. The one you never think you can tell me. The one you think will make me think you weird.”

Roger had swallowed, and taken another gulp of wine. And then he’d opened his mouth and-

And now, here they were. Roger was in his pristine black kit, a spare set sent by Uniqlo. The lights were on low. His phone was in the drawer by the bed. He got up and crossed the room, and took a deep, deep breath before he opened the door.

“Good evening.”

Rafa looked- Roger didn’t have the words, not in English, not in French, nor German, nor his halting Spanish. He was, top to toe, everything Roger had been hoping for and more. The eyeshadow, gold and shimmery and making his irises shine. The highlight that brought his cheekbones into sharp relief. But above all else, the lipstick- a dark cherry red, spread evenly and generously and making Roger think of all the things Rafa could do with those lips, that mouth-

And then, _then_\- the blouse, a light blue cotton, and the skirt, a darker blue, and the stilettos and- oh, _God_. He’d shaved his legs. How the _fuck_ was he supposed to explain this to-

“Is Mr Federer, yes?” Rafa cut through his racing thoughts. He came back to earth with a crash, to the here and now. Every sense was heightened. He could smell the hotel corridor carpet, and the perfume Rafa was wearing. Dark and fruity and no doubt expensive.

“Yes,” he said, and swallowed. “Come in.”

He stood to one side. Rafa entered and stood by the bed. Waiting. Roger closed the door and leaned against it. He tried not to focus on the fact that he was shaking.

“I sorry, Mr Federer, my English, is not so good.”

Rafa looked up from under his eyelashes- no need for mascara, clearly- and smiled shyly.

“That’s OK,” Roger said. “What’s your name, darling?”

“Rafael,” he replied. Three syllables. Three chances for Roger’s heart to skip a beat.

“And where are you from, Rafael?”

“I come from Spain. From Majorca. You know it?”

“A little,” Roger said, with a small, wry smile. “What brings you here?”

“I study. I try to learn English. But New York, is very expensive, no?”

“Hence…” Roger said, and made a vague gesture.

“Yes,” Rafa replied. “That is why. Mr Federer, I want to get to know you. You seem like a…” Rafael appraised him, and that’s when Roger noticed he was wearing a little blusher, and that he’d plucked his eyebrows. “You seem like a nice man. But first…”

Roger shivered. Somehow, this was the bit that he’d been the most nervous about. He’d gone to an ATM that afternoon, and the notes had been sticking out of his wallet since then.

“$100?” he said, as he picked it up from where he’d left it on the bedside table.

“Yes, for an hour.”

He counted out five twenty-dollar bills and handed them, folded over, to Rafa. He counted them in his turn, licking his finger and inspecting them, before tucking them away in a pocket Roger hadn’t realised he’d had. He watched every precise movement from beginning to end and then- oh, _God_. It was real.

“Thank you, Mr Federer.”

“You can call me Roger.”

Rafa dipped his eyes and smiled a little. “If you wish, Roger.” He moved back and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Tell me about you, Roger,” Rafa said. Roger was still leaning against the door. He bit his lip. The urge to go over, to hold Rafa down and- but he waited. The anticipation was better than anything. Like a taut wire, Roger observed, like the silence that falls before championship point at Wimbledon.

“I’m from Switzerland,” he said. “I’m thirty-three.”

“And you play tennis, yes? Many tennis players in this hotel.”

“Yeah, I play tennis. Do you- you follow sports?”

Rafa shook his head. “I do not have time. I know nothing about tennis. You are good, yes? People know you? You are famous?”

“People know me,” Roger echoed. “People know my name.”

“Is impressive, no? I am impressed. I meet so many people, but not so many famous people.”

“I’m just a guy.” Roger said it, more to himself than to Rafa, in a low voice. “I’m just me.”

Rafa said nothing to that, just looked up at him with those liquid brown eyes and smiled gently.

“You are beautiful,” Roger said. “I hope I’m not the first person who’s said that to you tonight.” His voice shook as much as his hands did.

“You are the first,” Rafa said. “Thank you. You are beautiful also. Your hair- I can?”

Rafa held a hand out. Roger nodded. He got up and stood so close Roger could hear him inhale. He ran his fingers through Roger’s hair, slowly, gently, like he was savouring every moment. He was iridescent. Roger could just barely take it all in.

“What you want me to do, Roger?” he said. “Tell me.”

“Kiss me,” Roger said, and Rafa did, and every time was like that very first rush of electricity. He opened his mouth and let Rafa in, and their tongues met, and it was slow and dirty and _everything_.

“You taste good,” Rafa said, almost against Roger’s lips. “You taste like chocolate.”

“You taste like lipstick.”

“I will not have any left on my lips by the time I am done.”

Roger bit his lip at that, at the thought of what they both would look like once they were done. He leaned in again, kissed the thoughts away. In the _moment_, he urged himself. This beautiful creature was going nowhere.

Rafa took the initiative to deepen the kiss and leaned in to pull Roger close by the waist. Through the fabric of the skirt, Roger could feel that he was hard, and he began to grind his own erection against it, seeking any friction he could.

“Ah,” Rafa sighed against his cheek. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Roger replied.

“How you want me, Mr Federer? You want me on my knees? You want my lipstick on your cock? You want to fuck my mouth?”

Roger let out a whine and kissed Rafa again, harder.

“Naughty girl,” he whispered against Rafa’s cheekbones. “I should fuck your filthy mouth.”

“I can be more filthy.” Rafa nipped at Roger’s neck, and with practised ease and muscle memory, Roger grabbed him by the jaw.

“I think you’re forgetting who’s in charge here,” he said, low and deep in his chest. “Think you’re forgetting who’s paying who.”

“I-” Rafa’s eyes turned to liquid black when Roger tightened his grip and cut him off.

“Who is in charge?” Roger hissed, and against his thigh he felt Rafa’s cock jump. “Tell me, _puta_.”

“You,” Rafa breathed, “You are in charge, sir.”

“Good girl,” Roger said, and released Rafa.

“You are in charge,” Rafa repeated. He pawed at Roger’s chest, at the buttons on his polo shirt. “Tell me, _por favor_, tell me what you want. You want to fuck me? Fuck me raw, yes? Fill me up, breed me…” Rafa was cut off again by another breathless kiss. Roger moaned low, lust-filled. His skin felt like it was on fire. He grabbed the back of Rafa’s neck, fingers twisted into the curly hair that grew there.

“Yeah,” he exhaled. “I wanna fuck you. I wanna use your hole. That’s all you’re good for. You filthy fucking whore.”

Rafa purred at that, one blood-red lip sliding over the other. “Take me,” he whispered, “Take all of me. I’m yours. You pay for it.”

And Roger did. Pushed into his space, lifted him and _threw_ him onto the bed, and _god_¸ his back wasn’t going to forgive him for that, but he didn’t care. Rafa squirmed up to the headboard and kicked the stilettos into the other corner of the room. Roger, in his turn, advanced, pulling his belt off and his shorts down and freeing his aching, hard cock.

“So ready for you,” he said, running his hand over the shaft and swiping his thumb over the head. “Taste me.” Rafa hungrily licked the bead of precum offered to him, sucking Roger’s entire thumb into his mouth. _God_, but a lip felt different with lipstick on it, and that was a sensation Roger wasn’t expecting to enjoy. He drew his hand back and ran his now-wet thumb over Rafa’s lower lip. There was a slight smudge, a hint of what was to come.

“Ready for me,” Rafa confirmed. “Fuck me, Roger, please.”

“Turn over. Show me that pretty little ass.”

Rafa did as he was told, and Roger thought he’d never get used to that sight, the swell and curve of Rafa’s ass facing him, ready and waiting.

“Do I need to warm you up, _puta_?” Roger growled, running his hand over one asscheek where it was still covered by the skirt. “Or have you been a bad girl?” He punctuated the question with a firm slap, and Rafa jerked forward and cried out.

“I, ah-” his voice was that perfect high and desperate it got when he was really turned on, and Roger knew the fat pink head of his cock would be drooling precum onto the bed already. “I prepare before I come out. To save time.”

“Oh, yeah?” Roger said, still massaging Rafa’s ass with one hand. “Tell me about it.”

“I, ah. I fuck myself, with my hand, no? And I was wearing a plug all day.”

“So you’re good and ready, then?” Another hard, abrupt slap. Another cry of painpleasure.

“Yes, please, my cunt, so ready for you.”

A moan started in Roger’s chest and rumbled deep and low. Rafa never used that sort of language, not even when quoting someone else. Roger’s cock twitched in response, and he decided, right there, to end the prevaricating and do what he came to do.

He shoved Rafa’s skirt up and-

“That lingerie,” he purred, “You really _are_ a bad girl.” The palm of his hand hit skin, where the high-rises didn’t cover. A red mark and a shiver.

“Was a gift, no? From a client.”

It was calculated perfectly to get the rise out of Roger, and he responded in kind, ripping the black lace, balling it up and chucking it to one side.

“You’re mine. I paid for you,” he said, low into Rafa’s ear, and then spat on two fingers and worked them in. “Fuck, baby, you really are ready.”

Rafa moaned in assent and pleasure as Roger twisted and scissored his fingers, beckoning and hitting the spot.

“Fuck me, please, please, _por favor_-”

Roger cut him off by pulling his fingers out and slapping him again, once, twice on each cheek.

“You don’t get to set the pace, _puta_,” he hissed. Rafa trilled and buried his head in the pillow. Roger came back with three fingers this time, and with the other hand reached round to wrap a loose fist around Rafa’s cock. There was already a patch of precum on the bed and it was pouring out of him in a steady drip.

“So wet for me,” Roger said. “So ready. Your cunt and your cock, waiting for me.”

“_Por favor_,” Rafa gasped again, so Roger lined his dick up with his gaping hole and with one last clipped smack to his asscheek, pushed deep and fast into him.

The latter released a litany of swearwords in Catalan that gave way to a break-point grunt.

“That good for you, baby?”

“_Sì, sì,_ so good,” the words a breathy rush.

“Not too fast?”

“No, is good, is so good-” And then his breath hitching into a yelp, because Roger began to move, pulling almost all the way out only to slam back in, hitting his spot.

“Jesus, fuck, you feel so good,” he grunted, and then it was just the slap of skin on skin and animal sounds. Rafa’s higher-pitched moaning and mewling harmonised with the rumbling baritone of the orgasm growing in Roger’s stomach.

“I- ah- do this a lot,” Rafa managed to gasp, “But no one do it like you.”

“Yeah?” Roger said.

“You are the best. The best I ever have it-”

“Fuck, let me take you…” Roger grabbed him roughly by the hips (and the thought of his thumbprint left as a bruise tomorrow, peeking out over Rafa’s shorts, flashed through his mind like lightning). He pulled him back and in, angling him so he could get deeper, pound him harder.

“My cunt- so open- all yours,” Rafa’s gasps became strangled and Roger knew he was close. He didn’t let up, like he sometimes did, no teasing, no edging, just the pure waves of pleasure harder and harder until Rafa yelled something that might have been _I can’t take it_, and then a long, low, match-point moan, and his body collapsing boneless onto the bed. And the clenching around Roger’s dick as he spurted, shooting cum all up the sheets and his belly and chest, and the sight and the sweat and the sounds were all too much, and Roger came too, stuttering to a halt where he was, plunged all the way in, that exquisite ring of muscle milking every last drop.

He pulled out. They collapsed onto each other, fever-hot. Roger’s chest hair was curled with the sweat, and Rafa was bright red and breathing hard.

“Turn round. Get up.”

“Ah, I-”

“Get out of my bed, _hure_.”

Rafa sat up, pulled himself up, still panting. The lipstick was smeared across his face like chalk on a pavement after rain. It stained the pillow, red and gold shimmer. It was a little like blood, Roger noted, only better, knowing where it came from.

“You want that I go?” he said, and the plaintive note in his voice was sweet sugar. “You want that I just put my clothes on, I go, still with your cum in my cunt?”

Roger growled despite himself and his cock gave a valiant twitch. “Stop trying to turn me on, whore,” he hissed. “I’m not paying for another hour.”

“Ah,” Rafa said, and climbed out of bed, retrieving his clothes and pulling them on slowly. It was with a slow blink that Roger saw the trail of cum sliding down his thigh, just shining a little in the low light of the suite. “You, ah, rip my underwear. I will be going home, on the subway, nothing under my skirt.”

“Good,” Roger said quietly. “Then everyone on the F train can see that you’re just a hooker.”

“You think they will not guess?” Rafa added with a wry smile. “You ruin my makeup.”

“I should have cum on your face.”

“Next time, no?” Rafa said, and with his final stiletto strapped on, he slipped out of the suite and shut the door with a click.

Roger waited for the soft footsteps to fade and hauled himself up and into the bathroom. He spread baby oil on a cotton pad and wiped the remnants of Rafa’s enthusiasm off. His lips were red and slightly swollen from kissing. Some of the highlight Rafa had used on his cheek was also left- some of it, somehow, in his eyebrows- but he didn’t want to wipe that away.

He showered and brushed his teeth and did all ten steps of his skincare routine, and by the time he was in his pyjamas (there was a little smudge of red on his worn-out old Snoopy shirt; he’d left them folded up under his pillow) and ready to curl up in bed to wait for Rafa, the latter was already there. He was shirtless, as was his preference. A view of bruises on his ass would have to wait for the morning. He had cleaned up completely in the other room. They’d made sure to book an entire second suite they said they needed for, uh, their kit, and their clothes, and so they had both a sea view and a skyline view. Or something. Anyway, all traces of the lipstick were gone, and Rafa looked like himself again, only a little more tired.

“Hey,” Roger said softly, and slipped into bed next to him. He was flicking through Twitter, but switched off his phone and stuck it to one side when Roger slid an arm round him. “_¿Estas bien, mi rey?_” He could, by now, stumble through enough Spanish to speak to Rafa in situations like this. Like when he was sitting very still and very quiet, his mind percolating everything that had just happened. When English wasn’t yet accessible to him, when he needed a hug and his hair stroking and to be held until his breathing slowed and he could sleep. 

“_Sì_.”

“You need anything?”

“No, it’s fine. I’m good. Just tired.”

“You enjoyed it?”

“Yes,” a deep sigh of satisfaction that settled Roger’s heart. It never worked if Rafa wasn’t into it. A sound like that, a _yes_ of an itch being scratched and a need being met, was the closest Roger would get to a cigarette after sex.

“You were very good.”

“Mm.”

“You would make a very good whore.” _Puta_ in Spanish sounded better than _whore_ in English, and he was glad of the staccato spit of it in Rafa’s ear.

“Yes?”

“Yeah.”

“No need,” Rafa said, turning his head into Roger’s chest and nuzzling deep. “You don’t need to pay for me.”

“Good,” Roger said, “But it’s nice to pretend.”

“Always,” Rafa replied, with that same note of satisfaction. “Again. Soon. But now, bedtime.”

“Bedtime,” Roger agreed, and he held Rafa tight even as he reached to turn the light off. He slowed his breath and let Rafa listen to the steady thud of his heartbeat, and stroked the smooth skin of his leg with a smile until sleep overtook him.


End file.
